


Worried Over You

by captaincharming



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: AU, M/M, Slash, atwwn series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-13
Updated: 2014-06-13
Packaged: 2018-02-04 11:54:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,013
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1778104
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/captaincharming/pseuds/captaincharming
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Killian lands himself in the hospital when he's mugged for his guitar outside of the Apollo, and David finds a new meaning for the word "worried". Set in the ATWWN verse.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Worried Over You

**Author's Note:**

> This is an addendum of sorts to my And The World Was New fic. A while ago (sorry it took me this long!), we got an anonymous request over on our hookedoncharming tumblr for this fic. The original ask is here: http://hookedoncharming.tumblr.com/post/85067095796/could-i-request-a-and-the-world-was-new-verse-fic
> 
> It's a little different than requested, but hopefully still good.

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"I think that about does it, Henry. If you'll grab that roller I'll take the ladder back to the shed." As Henry hurries to comply, David runs a forearm across his sweaty brow, taking in the freshly painted "meet and greet" room of the animal shelter. He and Henry had spent half the afternoon and most of the evening sprucing up the dingy place, with the new coat of paint putting on the finishing touch. The room looks damn good, even if he has to say so himself, though he’s sure the rest of the staff will agree. Henry had proven to be quite adept with a paintbrush.

Over the past year or so, Henry had been upgraded from occasional dog-walker to part-time employee, coming in three afternoons a week to assist David with various shelter duties. Today's project was their attempt to make more inviting the room where potential adoptive families met with their intended new pets. It was the first in a series of changes David planned to make over the next year. 

Henry had been as eager and willing to help as ever and, without David noticing, he had stayed well over his usual four hour shift. 

Glancing at the clock over the reception desk on his way out back with the ladder, David winces at the lateness of the hour. 

"Uh, Henry?" he ventures sheepishly, "You did tell your mom you were staying late, right? She knows you're here?"

Trailing along in David’s wake, Henry rolls his eyes good-naturedly, which seems to be his one and only rebellious preteen habit. The kid's a good egg. David knows he’s lucky to have him. He’s heard the horror stories from the other businesses around town who had hired teenage helpers.

"Yeah David. You had me call her, remember? Like, three hours ago,” Henry replies patiently, which says to David that he’s answered the question at least once before.

David nods, relieved. Emma is a great girl, but also terrifyingly protective of her son. During Henry's "interview" (which was more of a formality than anything, because David has known and loved the kid for years), Emma had asked David more questions than he'd asked Henry. The town's sheriff had turned an interview into an interrogation. David definitely doesn't want to be on Sheriff Swan's bad side. And keeping her kid out until all hours without her permission might have just put him there.

"She said I could stay with you as long as you needed me, if I texted her every half hour," Henry continues, following David out to the storage shed. "Sooo I was thinking, we still have time to like, get ice cream or something. Since we've been working so hard." He smiles up at David winningly and David laughs.

"That's how you think this works, huh?" David shakes his head, still amused. Henry laughs back, holding the door to the shed open as David maneuvers the ladder through. He props it against the wall just inside the door, purposefully avoiding looking around, lest he feels compelled to start another to-do list to get the messy place in order.

"Come on, you know we earned it!” Henry is persisting as David steps back out into the breezy night. “We could even call Killian and see if he wants to come."

David has to hand it to him, the kid is sneaky as fuck. Worryingly, he may have picked up the skill from none other than Killian himself. Regardless, Henry knows that David can't resist anything that involves his boyfriend. But David knows something Henry doesn't.

"Nice try kid, but Killian has a show tonight," David replies, locking the shed and dropping an arm around Henry's shoulders. He ignores the guilty pang he feels when he thinks about Killian's show, giving Henry a squeeze to cover it up. This project was just as important as Jolly Roger’s millionth show at the Apollo.

And it's not like David hasn't been to every show since he and Killian started going out. The dive bars with the questionably sticky floors, the small time fairs with the surprisingly decent food, and every place in between. Jolly Roger has been in the local rotation quite heavily over the past few months, and has even started to gain statewide attention. Which Killian is understandably pleased about, because it had taken a long time to get there.

And David is pleased too, even if it means giving up the majority of his free nights, and fighting some of his more jealous tendencies along the way. Killian inspires adoration wherever he goes, and when he's playing and singing it's even worse. So David spends a lot of time holding his tongue (and his temper) in check, otherwise he’d start a different barroom brawl every week. He has to ignore the various women (and occasional man) who make it _very_ clear that they wouldn’t be opposed to spending a little one-on-one time with David’s boyfriend. If he didn’t, David wouldn’t be able to attend any of Killian’s performances. But Killian loves when David comes to his shows, and David loves watching Killian play.

Tonight, however, had been the only time this week that Henry was free to help David, and there was no way David could've tackled the painting project on his own. So Killian and Jolly Roger had headed to the Apollo alone while David headed to work, albeit with an indecent amount of pouting on Killian's part. 

"But David," Killian had whined, following David around their apartment as he prepared to leave for work that morning, "you can paint the fucking walls any day."  
  
"I can also spend any night in a seedy bar, especially now that I'm dating you," David replied with a hint of amusement. He had purposefully kept his eyes on his shoes as he tied them, because one glance at Killian would've spelled the end of his resolve. Aside from being unable to resist Killian's pouting face, his layabout of a boyfriend had been dressed in nothing but a pair of briefs (that David was ninety percent sure were his own). 

Killian had tried every means of waylaying David, even going so far as to promise to help paint the “goddamn animal rejects room” himself. Which had been a surprisingly tempting offer, because Killian is the laziest fuck David’s ever met. It would have been highly entertaining to watch him struggle.

But David had left anyway, amidst Killian’s claims that he was now being given the silent treatment. David isn’t sure Killian understands what that means, as he’s been texting David nearly constantly ever since. Killian had recently become obsessed with emojis, so David had been subjected to a range of frowny and crying faces since around noon. And also the hands that are making the “okay” symbol and pointing, complete with a big red X between them. David had feigned ignorance as to the meaning of that one before finally turning his phone off and leaving it in his office while he and Henry painted. He’s sure to be faced with 500 new messages, in varying stages of outrage, when he returns for it.

At the thought of having to face his boyfriend’s disappointment again, David suddenly decides that Henry’s suggestion to postpone the end of the evening as long as possible is brilliant. It’s not like Killian is sitting around at home waiting for David anyway. He briefly considers heading to the Apollo, but another glance at the clock confirms that he’s missed about half the set already. And besides, David has always been a sucker for Henry’s pleadingly hopeful face.

Shoving Henry lightly through the shelter door, David resolves to give in. The boy adores him. How cruel would he be to deny Henry the joy of his presence?

Grinning at his decidedly Killian-ish way of thinking (perhaps Henry isn’t the only one he’s rubbing off on), David turns towards his office, speaking to Henry over his shoulder.

“Ice cream sounds great, kid. Grab your jacket and we’ll go.” Henry takes off for the back room with a cheer as David belatedly adds “Make sure it’s okay with your mom!” 

\--x--

"Remember boys, tonight I'm in the market for a new boyfriend." Killian's words are met with a collective groan from the band as they unload bits of their equipment.

"Oh shut up Killian, it's not a big deal," Graham chastises, already irritated with Killian's pity party. "He comes to every fucking show. Give the guy a break."

Killian sniffs contemptuously, purposefully allowing the back door of the Apollo to swing closed in Graham's face.

"It's the  _principle_ of the matter," he stresses as Graham struggles to get the entry open again. "Being in a relationship entails supporting one another and I do not feel very supported right now."

“Supportive, yes. Completely dependent, no,” August replies. “You don’t need to be up each other’s ass all the time. Figuratively,” he adds pointedly when Killian opens his mouth with a smirk.

They continue to argue the point as they make their way backstage, having no time to hash it out properly. They’re due onstage any minute now.

Killian knows his band mates are right. He’s blowing the situation far out of proportion. But in the months since he and David got together, Killian has come to rely on his presence at these shows. David grounds him, always has, and that gives Killian a confidence on stage like he’s never had.

Apparently that confidence has translated to the audience in a big way, too. Jolly Roger are playing more shows than they ever have, and are even booked for several big events during the summer.

Every aspect of Killian’s life has been on a major upswing, and he knows he owes a lot of it to David. Which is why he doesn’t think he can be blamed for wanting David around always. David makes everything lighter, more enjoyable, more infuriating, more _everything_. Killian feels a slow smile crawl across his face as he thinks about all the ways David compliments him. He-

Killian is pulled from his increasingly amative musing by the voices of his mates.

“Guess the boyfriend hunt is off,” August is saying. “He’s got that dopey look on his face. His ‘David’ face.”

Killian flips him a cheery bird as the other guys laugh. He turns away to hide his smile, rummaging around in his guitar case aimlessly. He pulls out the picture of David he keeps fastened to the lid, the one he’d “borrowed” from Ruby nearly a year ago. The blue of David’s eyes, the brightness of his smile, the flush in his cheeks always bring Killian pause. It’s a picture that’s damned hard to look away from.

The choice to look away is taken from him, however, as Graham knocks the lid closed on his way past. He jumps slightly, glaring up at Graham, who laughs.

“Come on, lover boy. Show time.” 

Killian frowns but lets it go, tucking the picture in his pocket and reopening the case to pull his guitar out, standing to follow the guys out to the shabby stage. No matter how shitty it remains, the Apollo feels, in a way, like home. Familiar, comfortable.

Although Killian feels decidedly less comfortable when he takes the stage and doesn’t immediately lock eyes with David. Always off to his right, three booths back, damned beer in his hand, smile on his face. David has become as much as part of these shows as Jolly Roger themselves. And now he’s not here.

Killian has made the decision to wallow in his betrayal when he glances to his left and catches August’s eye. He frowns at Killian sharply and his message is clear. _Knock it the fuck off._

Killian nearly flips him off again but catches himself. He is somewhat self-aware, and certainly enough to realize when he might be behaving just a touch dramatically. David would put air quotes around the word ‘touch’ with a roll of his eyes, but Killian is through thinking about David anyway. He’s performed countless shows without David, thank you very much. One more shouldn’t be this big of a deal.

Shaking off the absence of his infuriating boyfriend, Killian flashes a smile for the modest crowd. Sucking in a deep breath, he nods to Smee, who proceeds to count them off.

The show goes off without a hitch, albeit a little less thrilling than usual. It’s missing the verve that is typically found behind a set of pale blue eyes. But altogether it’s a good show, and Killian grins to himself as the band exits the stage at the end of their appointed juncture.

They had played earlier than usual, meaning their set is wrapped up at a perfectly reasonable hour. The lads immediately head for the bar, intending to make the most of the rest of the night. Killian hangs back slightly, hesitant to join them. Though he’d determinedly set him out of his mind, Killian finds himself missing David’s familiar warm smile to greet him as he walks off stage.

Graham notices Killian’s reluctance, and turns back with a questioning look. Killian offers him a weak smirk as he approaches.

“What’s up? You forget where the bar is?” Graham asks seriously, though Killian recognizes the teasing in his voice.

“Ha ha,” Killian replies, eyes on his hands. He’s loathe to admit he’s become one of “those” people; the ones who can’t seem to enjoy themselves outside the company of their significant other. And yet…

He just would really rather be with David, okay? Thankfully, Graham is sensitive to his plight. And gracious enough not to make him own up to it.

“Just go,” he tells Killian with a soft smile.

“Yeah?” Killian asks, cocking an eyebrow in surprise at the ease of it all.

Graham nods, clapping a hand to Killian’s shoulder companionably. “Look, if I had someone like David waiting for me at home, you think I’d stick around at some shitty bar with these assholes?” He grins at Killian impishly and Killian laughs, covering the hand on his shoulder with his own.

“Well I didn’t want to say anything but,” he starts to reply and Graham pushes him away with a laugh of his own.

“Just go. I’m sick of your sad puppy eyes anyway.” Graham heads back towards the bar, but adds over his shoulder, “Force David to make it up to you, yeah?”

Killian salutes him saucily, earning another laugh. Smiling to himself, Killian heads the opposite way, back through the ready room. He gleefully plots ways for David to “make it up to him” as he goes, fingers twitching in anticipation of being buried in David’s longer than usual hair.

Killian hums to himself as he packs up his guitar quickly, deciding to exit through the door backstage rather than walking back through the bar. Who knows who he might run into out there.

Turning on his phone to check for any word from David (though, let’s be honest, David probably turned his own phone off after Killian’s eighteenth message), Killian shoulders his way out of the back door. It tends to stick but he manages to get it open after a good shove.

His attention is still focused on his rebooting phone, so Killian fails to notice that he hasn’t walked out into an empty ally.

“Hey!” barks a low, gruff voice, and Killian’s head snaps up in surprise.

He’s faced with a guy, maybe slightly older than Killian himself, dressed very similarly in a black jacket and dark jeans.

“Oh hey,” Killian returns, his own voice higher-pitched than normal. He chooses to blame it on surprise rather than apprehension. He has no reason to be startled. The guy looks like he’s getting ready to play a show too. Perhaps he’s a part of the next act.

During Killian’s quick mental appraisal, the man has moved in closer, eyes on the guitar in Killian’s hand.

Killian takes an instinctive step back towards the door and the man laughs softly.

“Sorry to scare you, man. That a good axe?” he asks, gesturing at the case.

 _See? He’s nothing but a fellow musician. No need to act like a wuss._ Killian sighs subtly, relaxing instantly.

“Pretty decent,” he answers, a bit smugly. “You play?”

The man smiles absently, eyes still on the guitar. He hasn’t halted his advance, and he now stands no more than an armslength from Killian.

“Naw. But I know a few people who do.” He reaches out to brush a hand against the case and Killian recoils again. He doesn’t even let David touch his guitar.

“Bet I could get them interested in this,” the guy mumbles mostly to himself, still not meeting Killian’s eye.

Killian pulls the guitar out of reach, holding it behind him. “Well that might be difficult, seeing as it’s not for sale,” he replies firmly, making to step around his newfound adversary.

With a grin, the man moves to block his path, bracing an arm on the Apollo’s brick wall. Killian feels his stomach sink with something akin to dread and he tightens his grip on the phone in his hand.

“Who said anything about buying it?” is the response Killian gets, sneered out between bared teeth. Killian takes a strangled breath, straightening up with a glare.

“Look, I don’t want any trouble from you,” he says, surreptitiously attempting to dial a number, any number, on his phone without drawing attention to the fact that he’s on his phone. “And you surely don’t want any trouble from me, so why don’t we just go our separate ways?”

As he’s speaking, Killian’s phone makes a sudden chirping noise. _Goddammit._

The phone is knocked away by Killian’s apparent mugger as Killian continues to silently curse it.

“Let’s not make this harder than it needs to be, okay?” he says with another, slightly manic grin. He pats Killian’s cheek condescendingly and Killian jerks his head away as the filcher laughs. “Now how ‘bout that guitar?”

He reaches into the inner pocket of his jacket slowly. As Killian waits for him to pull out some inevitably nefarious object, all he can think is “ _Fucking David. This is all his fault.”_

\--x--

“Babe?” David calls, stepping into the curiously dark apartment. He thought for sure Killian would be home by now. David had stayed out much later than he had intended, first taking Henry to the ice cream shop on the main street, then staying for a drink and a chat once he dropped the boy off at home. Before David had realized it, he and the sheriff had spent two hours singing Henry’s praises and discussing his schooling while Henry (supposedly) went to bed.

David thought Killian would beat him back to their loft, but judging by the dark and the quiet, Killian must have had a later evening than he’d planned on, too.

Shrugging off the disappointment of coming home to an empty house, David heads for the shower. This is better anyway, he reasons. If he didn’t get into the bathroom before Killian, he’d just have to wait til morning.

So David jumps in the shower, taking a little longer than usual since he doesn't have Killian banging on the door, demanding his turn. Of course, sometimes Killian just barged in. Then David took even  _longer_  to finish up, but he wasn't complaining. David grins into his towel as he scrubs his face dry, recalling the last time Killian had been too impatient to wait. They'd ended up bumped and bruised (shower sex is complicated okay?) but it was well worth it.

Thinking on it has David suddenly eager to see his appetent boyfriend. Wrapping the towel loosely around his waist, David pads out into the bedroom, fully expecting Killian to be waiting, complete with his signature quirked eyebrow.

But the room is empty. David frowns, trailing damp footsteps across the floor and down the hall. His frown deepens when he's met with an empty living room and kitchen. What the hell, Killian should certainly be home by now. David vaguely remembers him bemoaning the earliness of the set before deciding it was a good thing because it meant he could come home early and spend time with David. This was, of course, before he realized David wouldn't be coming with him.

David rationalizes that maybe Killian has stayed out for spite. But something in his gut tells him that's not the case. Despite how much he frequents the place, Killian isn't a big fan of the Apollo. David is sure he would have chosen to come sulk at home.

He blames it on exhaustion, or maybe all those paint fumes, but it takes David a lot longer than he's willing to admit to realize that he has a means of finding out where Killian is.

Cursing himself softly, David trudges back down the hall to the bedroom. He retrieves his jeans from the hamper (David has a tendency to leave them on the floor, but it drives Killian crazy so he's making an effort) and pulls out his cell phone. With a guilty jolt, he realizes it’s still off from earlier, when he’d been ignoring Killian.

David pulls a pair of striped boxers while he waits for the phone to come on, still with a small pit of anxiety tightening his stomach. He just feels like something is off.

Finally, the phone prompts him for a password (a necessary precaution with Killian around, since he finds it hilarious to change David’s contact information to more “suitable” names), and he types the digits in quickly.

Almost immediately, the phone buzzes nearly out of his hand. The message icon declares that he has seventeen unread texts and three missed calls, two of which left a voicemail.

Ignoring the texts for now, David pulls up the first voicemail, which is from Killian.

_“I’m still not speaking to you, just in case you were wondering. But someone needs to instruct you not to paint the shelter walls bloody green. It’s bad enough your office looks like the inside of a pine tree. You want something cheerful, something that says ‘hey, look at our bright walls and adorable creatures! Take the little bastards home, they’ll make you nearly as happy as this color scheme.’ Ask Ruby for help if you can’t decide on your own. Also, reply to your fucking texts so I can ignore you in haughty indignation.”_

David laughs in spite of himself as Killian pauses briefly before muttering, quite reluctantly, “ _Love you. Bye.”_ Shaking his head, David saves the voicemail for future listening and moves on to the next one. Killian hadn’t offered any insight as to his evening plans, and it doesn’t seem like he intends to. The next message isn’t even from him, but from Graham. David groans softly, hoping it’s not a “hey come get your drunk ass boyfriend before he calls someone a gutter rat and tries to start a duel” sort of call.

Steeling himself, David presses play on the message. He’s offered no greeting other than a sharp intake of breath before Graham is rambling virtually incoherently. His voice is drowned out in fits and starts by what sounds like a siren, and David presses the phone tight to his ear, heart jumping into his throat.

_“David…Killian’s pretty banged up…-ack alley, apparently the guy was waiting…fucking wrecked…-bulance on its way to Storybrooke General, meet us there.”_

The call ends abruptly and David is left standing in the middle of their bedroom, in boxers damp from the half-ass job he did drying off, clutching his phone with shaking hands. After several excruciatingly long seconds, David shakes himself out of his stasis. Hands still trembling faintly, he presses the callback button on the voicemail and frantically searches for clothes as Graham’s number rings in his ear. “Pick up your fucking phone, Graham,” he grits out as it reaches the fourth ring. The call goes to voicemail as David struggles into a shirt, swearing vehemently. He presses ‘end call’ with entirely too much force, immediately hitting redial as he steps into his shoes and, without bothering to tie them, tears down the hall.

The second call has the same luck as the first, and David has to fight the urge to throw the phone against the wall. His pounding heart drowns out the sound of the door as he grabs his keys and slams it behind him, taking the stairs three at a time on the way down.

He doesn’t take even a moment to process Graham’s message. His only focus is getting to the hospital. David can’t explain but somehow he feels if he can just get to Killian, everything will be fine. He won’t allow himself to consider any other possible outcome.

And so he leaps into the cab of his truck, simultaneously shutting the door and gunning the engine, throwing it into drive with a desperate squealing of tires. David speeds down to the end his street, not even bothering to pause at the stop sign, but blowing right through and on to the main street through town. He offers up a silent word of thanks to whoever will listen that it’s late enough for the small town citizens to be tucked safely at home in their beds. There isn’t another car in sight.

All through the short drive to Storybrooke General, David just keeps reiterating to himself that Killian will be fine. He’s on his way and Graham didn’t mention anything about dying and besides, Killian is too fucking stubborn to even entertain the idea of dying and having no one around to constantly berate David.

At the thought, David gives a laugh that sounds more like a sob and covers his mouth with one of his still shaking hands. He keeps it there, breathing shallowly through his fingers as he takes the turn into the hospital on two wheels. Parking haphazardly across three open spaces, David throws open the door and jumps out of the truck, barely remembering to grab his keys as he goes.

Sprinting across the empty lot, David realizes that he has no clue which entrance he should take. He stands at the edge of the lot, heart threatening to pound out of his chest, lost in quandary. His first thought is go to the emergency room but, his pessimistic side whispers to him, maybe Killian’s injuries are severe enough to require intensive care, and he should head for that unit instead. Suppressing a shudder at the thought, he chooses the emergency doors. The optimistic side of him says it’s the right choice, and that’s the side he’s choosing to believe.

The automatic doors open painfully slow and David squeezes through as soon as there’s room enough, hands impatiently forcing the doors apart. He runs for the reception area, dodging a scandalized looking nurse and skidding across the slick floor, grabbing the edge of the admittance desk for balance.

There’s no one seated in the chair behind the counter and David spins around quickly, hands going to his hair with a frustrated tug. As he scans the room, David locks eyes with Graham, who stands and heads over to him immediately. David watches him come, a mix of trepidation and relief closing his throat and gluing him to the floor.

As he reaches David, Graham stretches an arm and wraps it around David’s bicep supportively and David feels his heart drop out. His frantic mind begins to conjure up any number of horrible things Graham could be preparing to tell him. He nearly makes himself sick with the rush of terror. That is, until Graham give him a sudden, inexplicable smile.

“Oh man, Killian is going to be so pissed you didn’t answer your phone. Wait til I tell him how long it took you to get here.”

While Graham laughs, all of David’s anxiety and panic and fear builds into a crescendo and spills over as fury. This…this fucking _asshole_. The term, usually reserved (fondly) for Killian, is the only appropriate response to Graham’s heinous behavior. And as Graham continues to chuckle at himself, David releases his sudden, overwhelming  fury in the form of a swift, hard punch to his jaw.

\--x--

_“Bloody hell, you’d think they’d turn out the fucking lights if they expect me to get any sleep.”_

Killian furrows his brow and squints against the florescent lightstrip above his uncomfortable bed. He feels groggy, though hungover may be a better word for it. His head pounds and he lifts a hand to rub at his temple, impeded by the various wires attached to his arm. The movement also draws his attention to the ribs he’d forgotten were fractured and he groans weakly.

At the sound, Killian hears a slight shifting to his right, and turns his head slowly, eyes still squinting at the searing light. He smiles softly at what he finds.

David is asleep in the uncomfortable looking chair beside the bed, head resting on the arms he has propped next to Killian’s leg. Killian reaches to run his fingers through the hair at the crown of David’s head, but he is restricted by the IV pulling at the back of his hand. He drops the hand back to his side with a sigh, instead nudging David lightly with his knee.

“Dave,” he croaks, throat dry. He glances at the bedside table and sees a pitcher of water, but decides against exerting the effort it would take to reach it. What are boyfriends for, if not to fetch you a glass of water as you lay dying in a godforsaken hospital room?

Obviously Killian knows he isn’t dying, but that’s no reason not to act like it. He bumps David again, a little more forcefully. Man sleeps like a fucking log.

“Daaavid,” he tries again, allowing a bit of a whine to slip into his voice. The longer he’s awake the more aware he becomes of just how much he _aches_. It’s as though he just got the shit kicked out of him in some back alley…oh wait.

Killian groans again, remembering the encounter with his would-be mugger. Turns out he’d had a sawed-off crowbar in his jacket pocket like some fucking mobster, and once Killian had refused to hand over his guitar, had set about trying to use it to convince him otherwise. He had stayed away from Killian’s face for the most part, thankfully only catching him across one eyebrow. It had been enough to send him to his knees though, black spots swimming in his vision. The next few minutes are a blur, but Killian vaguely recalls his assailant being run off by the arrival of the _actual_ next band to play that night. Two of them had run after the guy while the others tended to Killian, but Killian isn’t sure whether they actually caught him.

He is certain, however, that the lowlife hadn’t gotten what he’d come for and in fact, Killian’s guitar is safely residing in the trunk of Graham’s car, the picture of David tucked snugly inside. That assurance causes him to smile somewhat smugly.

He’s brought out of his recollecting by another shift from David, and he clears his throat expectantly. David’s head snaps up at the sound, eyes unfocused, red lines across his cheek from where it had been resting against his watch. “Hi,” he breathes sleepily, and Killian fights a smile at the adorableness of it all. He instead attempts to raise his eyebrow at David disdainfully. The effect is ruined, however, when he immediately winces as the movement pulls at his fresh stitches.

David frowns then, rising to his feet and reaching out to run a finger across Killian’s forehead tenderly. Killian almost pulls away, but David is gentle enough that the motion is comforting rather than painful. Killian presses his cheek to David’s palm with a sigh. He feels an odd sort of tension radiating from David and glances up at him with a questioning look.

David shakes his head slightly, muscle in his jaw working as he clenches it.

“I just,” he says, dropping his hand from Killian’s face to his arm, wrapping fingers around his wrist. He takes in the various cuts and bruises on display, eyes moving over Killian slowly. “If they find that guy, I’m going to kill him,” David finishes, voice dangerously low.

Killian’s heart constricts at the look on his face, but he clears his throat against the sudden tide of emotion and nods encouragingly. “Please do,” he answers sincerely, taking the hand still gripping his wrist in his own. “Then I can come see you in jail. I’ve always found the idea of conjugal visits extremely appealing.”

David laughs reluctantly, tugging on Killian’s hand as if to test the strength of his hold. “Shut up you asshole, this is serious.”

“Oh I’m being entirely serious,” Killian replies, but he has to clear his throat halfway through the sentence, grittiness getting worse all the time.

With another frown, David pulls away and steps toward the table. He bitches at Killian as he pours from the pitcher. “Why didn’t you tell me you needed a drink?” he huffs, coming back around the bed and holding the glass out towards Killian.

“Well I tried waking you but apparently all your plotting of murder wore you out,” Killian snaps back, reaching for the glass. He pauses when he sees the redness of the knuckles on the hand David has held out. Bruises have barely begun to form across the tops and Killian brushes a finger over them with a frown.

Now it’s David’s turn to clear his throat, though it sounds more like it’s out of guilt than severe dryness. He presses the glass into Killian’s hand and turns away, busying himself with needlessly adjusting the jacket he’d tossed across the back of the chair.

Killian watches him through narrowed eyes, sipping at his water. Fuck but that feels better. He takes another drink before attempting to address David’s sudden squirrelishness.

“David, what happened to your hand?” Killian finally asks, words laced with suspicion.

David mumbles something about Killian not needing to worry about it, and Killian’s suspicions grow.

“Well certainly I’m worried about it,” he says, annoyed that David hasn’t turned back to face him. “Did both of us somehow manage to get into altercations tonight? Do you need to be admitted to the hospital too? I’d be willing to share my bed,” he adds wryly.

David shakes his head, hands smoothing invisible wrinkles out of his jacket. Having had enough of talking to his back, Killian dips his fingers into the remaining water in his glass and flicks it at David testily. David brings a hand to the back of his neck, turning toward Killian with an irritated glare. Killian blinks at him innocently and David sighs, dropping into the chair and lacing his hands in his lap.

“I kind of…freaked a little when I got Graham’s message,” he begins, but Killian interrupts him.

“Oh yes! I had forgotten that I was pissed at you about that, thank you for reminding me.” Killian draws himself up as haughtily as his aching ribs will allow. “How dare you screen my calls?”

David’s glare returns, and he points at Killian accusingly. “Listen, you would have turned your phone off too, if I had been sending you fifty thousand petulant texts.”

Killian scoffs but doesn’t argue the point further, and David continues his explanation.

“Anyway, I drove over here like a bat out of hell and like, fucking sprinted into the emergency room. And Graham saw me and he came over with this,” David pauses, apparently searching for the right word, “this _morose_ look on his face and I thought I was going to throw up. Like I thought you were dead and I wasn’t with you and I-“ He stops again, turning his head away and swallowing thickly. The glaring lights above catch the wetness of his eyes and Killian wants to pull him into the bed, broken ribs be damned.

But David shakes his head as he blinks rapidly, looking back at Killian. “And then he like, touched my arm so gently and I was waiting for him to tell me a hundred horrible things and then he,” David barks a laugh, but he sounds anything but amused. “Then he says ‘Killian is going to be so pissed you didn’t answer your phone.’ And then he laughed.”

Killian closes his eyes briefly. He doesn’t even need David to finish the story. He knows what comes next. _Graham is a fucking idiot_. Of course, Graham couldn’t have known that David wouldn’t find something like that funny. Or what a short temper David has.

“And like,” David continues, oblivious to Killian’s thoughts, “I just felt this rush of like relief but also it just made me furious that he teased me like that because I was so worried over you,” David looks down sheepishly, a hint of color in his cheeks. “So I sucker punched him.”

He peers up at Killian from under his eyelashes and Killian can’t help it. He just looks like such an abashed child, and it makes Killian laugh. Loud and big and deep, which causes David’s own mouth to pull up at the corners in a reluctant smile. “It’s not funny,” he mumbles, but Killian laughs anyway. And he might have gone on laughing, if it weren’t for his blasted ribs. They remind him of their presence with a sharp twinge, and Killian puts a hand to them with a grimace.

David’s smile disappears instantly, and he moves back to Killian’s side. “You okay?” he asks, and Killian feels bad for putting that worried look on his face.

“It’s fine,” Killian gasps, breathless from both the laughter and the sudden pain. “Meds must be wearing off.” He gestures towards the call button on the bed. “Mash the nurse, would you?”

David snorts at Killian’s phrasing, but presses the button. He steps close after calling for the nurse, resting a hand on Killian’s leg. Killian takes it in his own, brow furrowing at the look on David’s face. His eyes are wet again, and he seems more tense than ever. It causes a different sort of pain to tighten Killian’s chest, and he squeezes David’s hand reassuringly.

“I’m okay, Dave,” he says softly, not trusting his voice to speak normally.

David shakes his head derisively, bringing his free hand up to swipe at his eyes with an exasperated sound. “I know,” he answers, his own voice shaky. “I just…what would I do if you weren’t?” He shakes his head again as Killian opens his mouth to reply. “No, it’s nothing. I was just worried.” David exhales softly, leaning down to press his forehead to Killian’s  briefly. “And don’t call me Dave,” he adds belatedly, stepping back from Killian’s bed slightly as they hear the nurse making her way down the hall.

Killian notices that although he stays back, David doesn’t take his hands off of Killian after that; not when the nurse bustles in, or when she and Killian have a bit of a sniping exchange. He steps back in close as Killian’s eyes begin to droop from the drugs, and as he finally succumbs to sleep, he feels David’s lips press to his temple.

\--x--

“If he calls my name one more time, I’m having it legally changed,” David mutters lowly, stepping out of the kitchen and marching down the hall.

He enters the bedroom, greeted by the familiar sight of Killian lounging in their bed, surrounded by a myriad of ‘get well soon’ supplies. Killian is gazing at him balefully, and David has to take a deep breath to keep his temper in check.

It’s been a week and a half since “the incident” (as David has taken to referring to it) and Killian has been home from the hospital for five days. He would have been home much sooner, but after the first night there (a night in which, after Killian had woke him up, David hadn’t slept another minute. He sat and held Killian’s hand, watching fretfully while he slept), Killian had had an allergic reaction to one of the pain medications they had him on. David had nearly lost it again when he’d had to stand by helplessly as Killian struggled for breath, face red and eyes wide.

They’d eventually gotten the reaction under control, but David hadn’t stopped trembling for hours after. It didn’t help that Killian had been switched to a different medication, one that was much less effective in managing his pain. Killian had been uncharacteristically quiet about it, which made David worry even more. When Killian isn’t complaining, he knows something is wrong.

So they had kept Killian in the hospital for a few days extra, and David had spent almost every minute at his bedside. When they’d finally sent him home, David couldn’t have been more relieved.

Now however, standing at the foot of their bed, listening to the pathetic whine of his no longer silently suffering boyfriend, David almost wishes he were back in the hospital. At least Killian had nurses to boss around there. Here, he only has David.

“Dave,” Killian says in the miserable tone of voice that sets David’s teeth on edge, “this pillow has gone entirely too flat.” He extends the aforementioned pillow towards David imploringly, and David glares at him in exasperation.

“Killian, how many times do I have to tell you not to call me that?” David grits out. It’s a battle they’ve been fighting almost from the moment they met. But the long-suffered nickname takes a backseat to the real issue at hand. “And why the hell can’t you fluff it yourself? I’m busy trying to fix the lunch you so humbly requested, remember?”

Killian pouts in a way that David used to find adorable, but after five days of having it flashed at him every other minute makes him want to repeat his fist throwing performance.

“It hurts to make such sudden movements,” Killian complains, eyes impossibly self-pitying. He gives the pillow a small shake, wincing exaggeratedly in the process.

“Oh for god’s sake,” David snaps, yanking the pillow out his hands. He jerks it back and forth a couple of times before tossing it back at Killian. “Happy?”

Killian smiles at him winningly, lying back on the pillow and making a show of squirming around until he’s comfortable. “Delighted, love. And I’m so looking forward to your undoubtedly marvelous lunch.” His nose wrinkles slightly as he continues, “Anything would be better than the abhorrent stuff they try to pass off as food in that hospital. Lime jello, honestly.”

David grumbles to himself as he trudges back down the hall, but he can’t deny the small thrill he always gets at hearing Killian’s endearment. Back in the kitchen, that thrill is buried under another wave of aggravation as he surveys the mess there. For the past hour he’s been attempting to fix Killian his desired lunch of fried eggplant and pasta.

David is no cook. He struggles with things that come from a box. His idea of fixing dinner is calling in a pizza. But Killian’s doctors had said that his medications might cause him to lose his appetite, and that David should attempt to fulfill any request he might make.

And so David had tried. He’d burned the first round of eggplant slices to a crisp, while simultaneously burning himself with the hot oil in the frying pan. Once he’d successfully fried six slices and tossed them in the oven, he’d somehow managed to forget about the pasta he’d left boiling on the stove. Which, of course, meant that the water had all but evaporated, leaving him with a clump of overcooked angelhair pasta.

With a belabored sigh, David sets another pot of water to boiling. He’s just turned back to the pantry to look for another box of noodles when he hears his name being called. Again.

“Jesus Christ Killian, what the fuck is it now? I’m so tired of hearing my name,” he yells back, fed up at last. He’s been back to the bedroom no less than seven times today. He refuses to set foot in there again, at least not until lunch is ready.

“Well you should have gotten me a bell like I asked for!” Killian shouts back, but then softens his tone. “I think something’s up with this medicine too. Come look at this.”

David’s heart kicks up in the bottom of his throat and he heads down the hall without further protest. He reaches the bedroom to find Killian frowning down at himself, eyes fixed on his bare stomach. David’s stomach clenches at the sight of the numerous bruises, and he thinks again that if he only had a chance to get his hands on that fucking…

Killian interrupts that train of thought, making an impatient noise and beckoning David over. “Look at this,” he says seriously and David steps closer. Killian gestures to an angry looking red mark, nearly invisible beneath the pallor of his bruises.

“Does that look like a rash to you?” he asks, fingering the spot gently. David reaches out to touch it too, watching Killian’s face closely.

“I don’t know,” he answers, hands still on his boyfriend. “Does it hurt?”

Killian shrugs loosely, still frowning at the spot. “Everything fucking hurts, so I can’t tell.”

David feels a twinge of guilt then, remembering just how injured Killian actually is. Yes he’s a spoiled brat and a complete drama queen, but he’s also been through the ringer lately.

David glances at the table next to the bed, looking for the numerous bottles of pills Killian had been prescribed. “Where’re the pain meds, babe? Let me look at the side effects.”

Killian reaches under the mass of blankets at his side, rooting around until he pulls out an orange bottle. David takes it, reading over the potential reactions.

“It doesn’t say anything about rashes. Let me go call the pharmacist real fast,” he says, standing from the bed. Killian nods, again distracted by the mark. David leans down to press a kiss to his hair, and Killian brushes a hand along his side absently.

“Don’t stress. You’re not having trouble breathing or anything, right?” At the shake of Killian’s head, David nods his and returns to the kitchen for his phone. Halfway through dialing the number for the pharmacist, David changes his mind. If this is another reaction to the medication, David wants to be able to take action straight away. He calls Killian’s doctor instead, and listens impatiently while he’s put on hold.

David turns the burner off from under his second pot of water, pacing the kitchen as he waits to be connected. Finally the doctor picks up, and David quickly explains the situation to her.

“Well, from the way you describe it, the mark sounds more like a burn than a rash David,” she says soothingly, seeming to pick up on David’s anxiety. “Has Killian been using the heating pad a lot?”

David blows out a relieved breath at her words. “Yeah, nearly constantly. That must be what it is,” he answers gratefully.

The doctor makes a surprised noise at his response. “He’s using it that much? I told him he only needs to use it when he’s in bed, but to turn it off before he goes to sleep.”

David laughs uncertainly. “Well, since he’s on bedrest, he’s kind of in bed all the time,” he replies, wondering if she’s forgotten her own recovery plan.

David isn’t sure if it’s possible to _hear_ a frown, but if it is, he hears one from Dr. Bradley. “Who told you he’s on bedrest?” she asks, disapproval dripping from her tone.

David feels a hint of suspicion creep in and he flashes a look down the hall. “Killian did,” he says back.

Dr. Bradley sighs heavily, and David gets the feeling she’s as fed-up with Killian’s antics as he is. Killian isn’t exactly a model patient. To say the least.

“That isn’t at all what I told him, David. I said that he should take it easy for a couple days, but by no means was he to be bedridden.”

At that, David feels his blood rush hot. That fucking sneaky son of a bitch. David was going to kill him.

David hadn’t been at the hospital when Killian had gotten his discharge orders from the doctor He’d made a quick run to the shelter to check on things, and hadn’t made it back until after Dr. Bradley had left. Killian had been sure to fill him in, however, especially on the part where the doctor had (allegedly) told him not to expend any effort whatsoever for at least a week.

David realizes that the doctor is still on the phone, and reins in his ire enough to thank her for her time. “This has been very enlightening,” he adds sarcastically. She laughs lightly. “Don’t be too hard on him, David,” she says in lieu of a farewell.

David tosses his phone on the counter and resumes pacing as he weighs the pros and cons of dumping a pan of marinara covered eggplant on Killian’s head. On one hand, it would be extremely satisfying. On the other, it would mean David has to sleep on an Italian flavored mattress from now on. Unless he knocked Killian in the floor first…

“David? Did you call the pharmacy? What did they say?” At Killian’s inquiring voice, David abandons the eggplant scheme altogether. He’d be the one who’d have to clean the mess up, after all. Killian included.

He makes yet another trek to the bedroom, stopping just inside the door and leaning back against the frame with his arms crossed over his chest. Killian looks up at him expectantly, still probing the offending blemish.

“They said it’s probably from your heating pad,” David replies coolly, belying his inner urge to yell at Killian until his voice is gone.

Killian frowns, glancing back down at his side. “The pharmacy said that? How’d they know about the heating pad?”

David walks over to the bed, pressing his knees to the edge so that he looms over Killian slightly. Killian tilts his head back to make eye contact.

“Oh I didn’t call the pharmacy,” David replies tightly. “I called your doctor. We had a very interesting conversation about your recovery plan.”

David feels a twisted sense of glee as the blood drains from Killian’s face. Killian clears his throat several times and looks away, hands bunching the sheets at his sides.

“Oh really?” he asks nonchalantly, but David can hear the slightly panicked tone he always uses when he’s been caught out.

David opens his mouth to verbally eviscerate his conniving boyfriend, but stops when he sees the way Killian’s shoulders hunch in preparation for the onslaught. David’s gaze roves slowly over Killian’s profile, then down, taking in the bruises and cuts that always serve to incite David’s sympathy.

David feels the anger drain from him, and he suddenly just wants to hold Killian in the way he thought he couldn’t until he was healed. But apparently he’s not as delicate as he led David to believe.

Which means David feels perfectly justified in reaching down to pull the recently fluffed pillow from behind Killian’s back, and whack him soundly over the head with it.

Killian sputters inelegantly, looking up in time to receive another hit to the face. He brings his arms up to defend himself, yelping at David.

“You fucking bastard,” David says, smacking him again for good measure. “You had me waiting on you hand and foot!”

Killian manages to wrest the pillow from David, who admittedly makes no effort to stop him. Laughing, Killian pulls David down on his back in the space beside him.

“You have to admit it was a fucking brilliant plot,” Killian says, leaning over David and grinning at him in that completely devilish way of his. David protests, struggling to sit up, but Killian pins his arms above his head and David relaxes, not wanting to hurt him. “The only way it could have been better is if I’d have been able to convince you to wear the nursemaid costume.”

“And anyway,” Killian continues softly, brushing his mouth over David’s, “look at the bright side. Now I don’t have to keep pretending we can’t have sex.”

He presses his lips to David’s firmly, smothering any response he might have made. And as much as he hates it, David has to admit he has a point.

He knots a hand in Killian’s rampant bedhead, keeping him close enough for another sound kiss before using his grip to break them apart. He glares up at Killian as Killian smiles down at him beguilingly.

“You’re a dick,” he says, rushing on as Killian begins to protest, “but I’m glad you’re okay. And I love you.”

Killian’s eyes soften the way they always do when David tells him how he feels. He leans in for a gentler kiss, grazing lips across David’s cheek and up to his ear. “Back atcha, Dave,” he whispers throatily and, despite the amatory situation, David laughs.

Moving slowly as to not further injure his incorrigible boyfriend, David reverses their position until Killian’s the one being pressed into the bed. David gazes down at him, irritation and pleasure and relief battling to be his dominant emotion, until Killian begins to squirm restlessly, both from the scrutiny and from the lack contact between them. David stills him with a tease of a kiss that’s more mingled breath than anything.

“I love you,” he repeats, relishing Killian’s shiver of anticipation. “But if you pull something like this again, I’ll break your ribs myself.”

Killian’s responding laughter is quickly smothered with yet another kiss.

 

 

 

 


End file.
